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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622685">Dearest Watson.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliviaPendleton/pseuds/OliviaPendleton'>OliviaPendleton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Confessions, Emotional, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Fake Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Goodbyes, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock is Alone, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:29:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliviaPendleton/pseuds/OliviaPendleton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After faking his death, Sherlock Holmes is particularly dissatisfied with the open ends in his abandoned life. Before he escapes into another though, he decides to write a letter to his dearest flatmate and closest companion, John Watson, in order to remedy this. If he never gets to lay eyes upon the man again, then he might as well be as sincere as he can when confessing the romantic whims that have overtaken him. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes does not know if this is a comfort, or perhaps the very thing that pains him most.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dearest Watson.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dearest Watson,</p><p>                   </p><p>It can be easily surmised that this letter will find you in a despairing state, and promptly transfer those feelings of bereavement into shock or disbelief. I write this without the intention of haunting you or otherwise forcing you to yearn for a companionship that you deemed lost, but instead I scrawl out of sympathy for your condition, or in the very least because of human decency. Or perhaps not-- You above all are well aware that I lack in the realm of what you would call decency.<br/>
I am, in the simplest terms, very cold. It is no surprise that you found me in life at a solitudinous standstill and my only friendship (or allegiance for that matter) was to myself. The lover to whom I clung to was an art of my own making, that brilliant mistress being the science of deduction. That phrase at which you scoffed over and insulted endlessly when you initially read my article. Later on I assume you both cursed and praised it out of neglect. Watson, you found me because you were alone and I was alone. Now freshly departed, it has occurred to me that we may always walk alone without the company of each other. Surely you find this to be a redundant phrase, and scant a year ago I would have said just as much. There is something different about the construct now though that strikes me with a contrary tune. Watson, I wish for you to know something that you might find damning of me, but I have the strongest suspicion that you will not. My attachment for you transcends the sentimental nature of which most men hold for one another. I would often find myself passing you mindful gazes in the soul of our flat on Bakers Street, if not a glance that flirted with the border of shameful interest.</p><p>My pen holds no grace with confessions like these, but I will relent onwards regardless because I find myself unable to live with the thought of never telling you my innermost desires. For years now you have bared the brunt of my apathy and my mockery. You have also been cradled within the most affectionate parts of my character, close to my chest, ghosting over the thrumming of my heart. This has occurred far less in the span of our entanglement than it should have, and only standing on the brink of introspection now, do I shame myself for the callous nature in which I have berated you with. The only thing that I can hope to make of my fantasies now is a manifesto here and now, on this piece of parchment. I will wrap it finely in a red ribbon, and stamp it with a wax enclosure to match. It will be properly spritzed with a waft of cologne that will surely encapsulate me as the lowest type of man. You will open it and realize that Sherlock Holmes is not dead, although he might as well be considered as such. John, no I have not miswritten, for I never do, you will glance at the ink upon this page and know fully how entrapping your hold on me is. My inability to sound articulate, or maintain a sense of dignity, should all be considered side effects.</p><p>For I have never known, or ever will for that matter, a narcotic that impedes me to speak so brashly. This drug that pushes itself through my arteries and festers in the logical attic of my brain, is one that many would call love I suppose. I have observed human nature in a variety of ways, and watched the manner in which this emotion forces people to act. It is desperate and staving! It has been a weapon by which men have decided to murder with, yet they praise it so innocently, that I have felt thoroughly perplexed. Despite the aggression I have witnessed it ignite though, or the dopamine-flooded faces of its victims, I had never expected the pain it wrought. I am quite peeved, if not entirely outraged that nobody thought to warn me how much it stings to love another person-- like a sickness that eats on you quietly, until you feel the wound all at once.<br/>
           </p><p>I am particularly angered by you <em>John</em>, for not mentioning to me how much it would hurt to be completely enamored by you. It is a dull ache some days but a violent gaping on others. You are lucky that I feel generous enough to excuse you of such a crime, because of the very same ailment in which you have infected me with. An illness known as love. I resist the urge to scowl while I write of the very thing, but it has never felt so sincere within me before. It drives me to find you at this very moment and pull you to my bosom, although I can say certainly that I will not do anything of the sort. If I had strayed from cowardice before, I might have gotten the chance to know what you look like when you are at ease with sleep. I may have been blessed with the opportunity to hold your face in my hands, something that I can only envision now. Unfortunately, it is also the very same catalyst that urged me to tear you apart and critique you so baselessly. To snatch you by your most primal and emotional needs, and shove you down into an inferior echelon; a place where you could never rise up nor abandon me in my selfish whims.<br/>
                   </p><p>Ah, but a consulting detective doth complains at his misfortune childishly. The very title within itself symbolizes luck, for what man has ever been able to forge a new line of work for himself? What man has ever been given the chance to know Dr. John Watson, in all of his dry humor, and his amusing agitations? If I had my druthers, which I typically do, I would keep you nestled under the crook of my arm and our friendship vibrantly alive. Everyday we would wake up in the comforts of our flat with a new lead and you would be very pleased with me in all aspects of life. I do not even dare suggest to you how often I dream of a world where my affections are returned, or where at the very least, our friendship could thrive untouched by the annoyances of Moriarty or the petty narcissist that clings to my back. It seems that this time though, I am incapable of obtaining the things that I want, so I will try to exit from your life quietly. I hear of promising things in America, or if not that, in hiding on our side of the pond. Do not search for me John, for you will not find me.</p><p> </p><p>I say this in the plainest, most sincere way: I love you.</p><p>Ever your friend,<br/>
Sherlock Holmes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I tried very hard to maintain a classic prose but it was challenging! I hope that you enjoy it all the same though. Since this is not beta read, feel free to leave any editing suggestions or critiques in the comments! Thank you~ &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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